


SW19

by movetotherhythm



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tennis, Coming Out, Gen, Homophobic Language, Idols, PURELY PLATONIC, Past Abuse, Pure broship, Sports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/movetotherhythm/pseuds/movetotherhythm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>World Number 1, Scott McCall is looking to race to the Wimbledon Men's Single's Title for the third year in a row of his incredible career. The Quarter Finals see Scott face off against on of the all-time greats, Peter Hale. It'll take a lot to beat the legend, but he knows that if he can, a semi-final match up with his best friend and closest rival, Stiles Stilinski, is on the cards. Unless 17 year old Isaac Lahey can do anything about it.</p><p>The first chapter is purely tennis but after that tennis knowledge isn't massively important. I've had a bit of writer's block on my other fic so I thought this would be a little fun. </p><p>The whole thing is purely platonic there is no love or anything. Giving it the "teen" rating for the homophobic language and odd 'f word'.</p><p>Tagged as Scisaac because it is Scisaac but bro-Scisaac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**_“So it’s looking like business as usual for World Number 2, Stiles Stilinski, on Court Number One here today as he leads the unseeded Isaac Lahey 6-4, 6-4, 4-2. Over on Centre Court, World Number 1, Scott McCall, is preparing to face World Number 5, Peter Hale, for a place in a semi-final matchup with the winner of the Stilinski-Lahey match.”_ **

Scott McCall paced in his dressing room ahead of his Quarter Final match. The English weather was not normal. It was stupidly hot, reaching into the mid-nineties, and that had a massive effect on both his and his opponent’s game.

 _“_ Peter Hale,” Scott said into the emptiness of his changing room. “Peter Hale.”

The two had met in the previous year’s Wimbledon final and Scott had edged it on a fifth-set tiebreak. The match had lasted for three minutes short of five hours and had gone down as one of the all-time greats on the English grass courts. But

In the year since the 2012 Wimbledon final, they’d played each other five times. Scott had won none of those matches. It really affected his confidence against the veteran.

Before the tournament, Hale had said that the current year was to be his last on the professional circuit. Wimbledon was the penultimate Slam of the year so Scott knew that Peter would be putting everything into the match; the legend wanted one last hurrah and their head-to-head over the past twelve months said it was going to happen.

Scott glanced again at the sheet of paper in his hand. His head-to-head stats with Peter printed on it. It informed him that he led Peter Hale 16-13 in all-time meetings but Peter had a 6-4 advantage in Grand Slams. It also told him that in Grand Slam Quarter Final matches, the pair had met twice. Peter had won both.

 _Shit,_ Scott thought. For one of the most successful tennis players of his era, Scott McCall was such a pessimist. He stopped his pacing to gather himself. With a deep breath, he let his thoughts continue but he forced a more positive air into them.

 _Okay, okay,_ he began to reassure himself, _I’ve beaten him before. The last time we played on this court, I beat him. He’s a lot older than me and stamina isn’t his A game, if I can make him move around a lot, I can do this. I can do this. I can beat Peter Hale. I can do this._

“I can do this.”

Scott felt the belief and adrenaline flood him. He bounced on the spot, higher and higher, using his toes to stay light on his feet. He replaced his stats paper with one of his custom made tennis racquets and swung it around as hard as he could while he bounced.

With every swing, he visualized a ball making contact with the strings and being propelled away from him. He visualised every imaginary ball hitting the target that he imagined on the far wall of the dressing room.

**_“Lahey pulls a game back here and it looks like the youngster from Hackney isn’t going to go down without a fight. 6-4, 6-4, 4-3 in Stilinski’s favour.”_ **

Scott liked to listen to the radio broadcasts of his possible opponents during their matches. It made him feel like he was gaining insight into the men he’d face. As if he’d need insight into Stiles Stilinski.

Off court, Scott and Stiles were very good friends. Scott and his long-term girlfriend Allison (who happened to be the daughter and mixed doubles partner of one of Scott’s biggest tennis idols, Chris Argent) often dined out with Stiles and his model wife, Erica Reyes. They’d even holidayed together in the Caribbean in 2011. The tennis world loved that such well known sporting rivals got along so well off-court.

Of course, it was just off-court that they got along. On the court, the two were fierce rivals to the last inch. They’d shared the top two World Rankings for almost four years. Both had spent well over a year as Number One and both had spent well over a year as Number Two. Neither had been out of the top two since the downright crazy US Open of 2010 in which long term underachiever, Matt Daehler, had dumped Stiles out in the first round on his way to his only Grand Slam to date. The shock defeat had caused Stiles to fall to number three for the space of about six weeks before he climbed back to Number Two.

Stiles had turned pro aged 17 in 2002 and Scott followed suit aged 16 in 2003. At the French Open in 2003, Stiles Stilinski and Scott McCall had faced off in the second round in match that Stiles had won 6-4, 4-6, 4-6, 7-6(9-7), 7-5. The five hour and six minute match had been the perfect introduction to what had become men’s tennis’ greatest rivalry in the decade afterwards.

Between 2003 and the current 2013 Wimbledon, the pair had met a staggering 58 times, with the score at 33-25 in Scott’s favour. In their 19 grand slam matches, Scott had beaten Stiles ten times. They were a pairing that the tennis world bowed to and they brought out the best in each other’s game.

Of the past nine Grand Slam finals, Scott and Stiles had contested six. Both had won three. The last time that there was a Grand Slam tournament in which neither Stiles Stilinski nor Scott McCall had featured in the semi-finals, Derek Hale was on his way to a triumph at the 2006 Wimbledon tournament.

To put it simply, they were successful; very successful. Two of the three most successful men’s tennis players since the 1960s; Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski, Peter Hale: the Zeus, Poseidon and Hades of the tennis gods’ hierarchy. 

**_“Isaac Lahey is struggling to hold on here at Court Number One right now. Stiles Stilinski has opened up some breathing space. He leads Lahey 6-4, 6-4, 5-3 and he’ll be serving for the match. Young Lahey needs a miracle here.”_ **

Scott smirked. Miracles rarely happened in tennis. Usually it came down to who was the better player on the day; miracles had nothing to do with it. The poor Lahey kid would have to just wait for his big breakthrough.

Scott had followed Isaac Lahey’s progress through the tournament since his first round straight sets disposal of former World Number 1, Derek Hale. Hale had insisted that he was injured and fatigued all through the build-up to the match and of course the physicians on site had all listened to every word but Scott didn’t buy it.

If he was truly injured and fatigued, the Mixed Doubles final he’d secured for him and his sister would never have happened. Scott prayed that Chris and Allison Argent would destroy Derek and his brattish younger sister, Cora. He had no doubt that they would; Scott’s girlfriend and her father were nothing short of a formidable team on a bad day.

Scott didn’t like Derek Hale at all. He sauntered around like the king of the world and he looked down on everybody as if he was some sort of Alpha male. But as much as Scott disliked him, he had to concede that Derek was a good player. Which is why the Lahey kid’s win was so unbelievable.

Lahey took him apart. It was incredible. Scott hadn’t seen somebody from outside the top ten control Derek’s game like that in a very long time. It was an utter shock. Lahey won 6-2, 6-0, 6-1 in a game that he completely controlled from start to finish. Derek Hale won the first two games of the first two sets and then he didn’t get a word in. Lahey won 15 games in a row. He was a total boss.

Scott found the young lad interesting. He reminded Scott of, well, Scott. After Isaac’s win against Derek, Scott decided to look into him. The kid had turned pro at _14 years old._ Scott himself had been 16 before that had happened to him _._ Lahey had gone out at the first or second round at all of the Grand Slams since he’d turned pro and then out of nowhere, he was in a Wimbledon Quarter Final and his game had drastically improved.

Entering the tournament, Isaac had been the World’s Number 86 ranked male tennis player but the demolition of Derek – the current World Number 6 – coupled with the trip to the Quarter Finals would almost certainly have him jumping at least fifty positions in the rankings after the tournament.

Scott felt sorry for the kid getting his ass handed to him by Stiles but at the end of the day, tennis is tennis and skill is skill. If Lahey wasn’t good enough, he wasn’t good enough. Well, he wasn’t good enough yet. Scott had to admit the kid was good; he’d reached his first Slam Quarter Final a full year younger than Scott had been.

Scott glanced at the clock above his dressing room door. It was time for him to depart.

**_“So it looks to be the end of the road for Isaac Lahey now then, Stiles Stilinski leads 6-4, 6-4, 5-3 and he’s currently serving at 40 to love with three match points. Stilinski steps up to the baseline for the serve.”_ **

Scott would have waited around to hear the result but he was certain of how it would turn out. Stiles Stilinski had one of the best serves on the circuit. He left the radio on so he could listen to the coverage of his own match when he returned.

With a deep breath and a fleeting feeling of compassionate pity for Isaac Lahey, Scott opened the dressing room door to face the corridor that would take him to Centre Court.

“See you in the semis then, Stiles,” he said with a smirk as he stepped out into the corridor. “I can do this.”

 

 

 

Peter Hale’s biggest weapon was his super powerful serve. His fastest ever recorded was over 150mph and it placed him amongst the biggest servers on the circuit. However, once as agile and quick as a fox, Hale’s game had lost a lot of speed as he grew older. If Scott could return the powerful serves and avoid conceding aces, he knew that he could make Peter run around and tire quickly. That was the key to the victory that Scott needed.

The match started off predictably enough; Scott won the first set, Peter won the second. It was a close tie between two fairly matched opponents. The third set was about halfway done when it got interesting.

Peter had won 4 games to Scott’s 3 and led the eighth 40-30 when it happened. Scott stepped up to deliver a 140mph serve and Peter stretched to return it. He couldn’t quite reach it though and he seemed to over exert himself.

For a split second Peter was on the edge of balance and from where Scott was, he looked almost comically suspended in mid-air. But then he fell to the floor and rolled onto his back.

Initially, Scott thought nothing of it; Peter would get back up. Except, for a long time, he didn’t. Seconds passed and seconds more and suddenly there were two physios pulling Peter to his feet and helping him to limp off the court. When a time out was declared, Scott took a seat on his bench aside the court and swigged from a bottle of Gatorade. His eyes scanned the crowd in Centre Court. He grinned when he saw her.

Allison waved down to him from her seat with a smile on her face. She always looked fresh in the crowd because the mixed doubles matches were spread out more than any others in the Wimbledon tournament. Her equally fresh-looking father, Chris sat on her left and smirked down at Scott. Scott could almost hear his teasing. _You couldn’t even beat him without him breaking a leg,_ he’d probably say. Scott smiled inwardly and waved back at his girlfriend.

He turned to look at Peter who was having his leg strapped up. Hale wouldn’t retire from the match out of pride but he and Scott both knew that he wouldn’t be playing in the semi-finals.

Scott felt a little weight lift off his chest… and then a feeling of disappointment settled on him. He’d been so pumped up for this match and he was ready to face Hale. He wanted to beat him fair and square but the injury had stopped that from happening.

 _I’ll just have to take it out on Stiles then,_ Scott thought bitterly. On the plus side, he could really focus on the semi-finals now. Evaluating your own strengths and weaknesses became a lot easier when you didn’t have to pay complete attention to beating a world class opponent.

Scott was right about two things. Firstly, Peter Hale didn’t retire from the match. Secondly, Peter Hale wouldn’t be playing in the semi-finals. Scott won almost every single point for the remainder of the match to win 6-3, 4-6, 6-4, 6-0.

“Game, set and match, Mr McCall,” the Umpire said into the microphone in her thick Russian accent. Scott lifted a fist to the sky in acknowledgement and a nattering of applause broke out around Centre Court. It died down just as an almighty roar was raised from Court Number One. Scott didn’t even process the noise; he just wanted to get out of there. He shook Peter’s hand and left the court with a quick wave to the crowd of admiring tennis enthusiasts around him.

 

 

 

“So Scott, you’re in the semi-finals! First of all, congratulations are in order!”

Scott was pretty pleased that the first face he saw off court was the lovely Sue Barker, former tennis professional turned journalist turned television presenter. He loved interviews with her because she genuinely knew what she was talking about; she was a joy to talk to.

“Thanks Sue, I’m over the moon that I’ll be there,” Scott said, a little breathlessly.

“It must be asked though – are you disappointed that you didn’t get the chance to play your way there?”

From most sports journalists, Scott would have read this question as an attempt at provocation but not from Sue Barker. From her it was genuine interest.

“Yeah, I am a little,” Scott said honestly. “Okay, more than a little. I wanted to beat him so badly, it’s been a while but I guess I’ll just have to try again at the US Open.”

Sue beamed – good answer Scott.

“Are you nervous about the semi-finals?” Sue asked.

“Of course I am!” Scott replied. “Stiles is a tough opponent – I should know I’ve played against him like nine hundred times. It’ll be a good match. May the best man win, and of course, I plan to.”

Sue’s smile seemed to falter a little bit and Scott felt a flutter in his chest – did he say something wrong?

“So you’re sure you’ll be facing Stiles in the next round?” Sue asked.

It’s was Scott’s smile’s turn to falter. He hadn’t even considered that it might not be Stiles he’d face. Surely it would be. After all, Stiles had been three match points to play on the Lahey kid when Scott left his locker room. Surely the kid hadn’t turned that around?

“Stiles was on three match points when I left my changing room,” Scott said. “You’re not telling me Lahey brought it back, are you?”

“At the moment, Isaac is 4 games to 1 ahead in the fifth set,” Sue replied. “He’s won the last three games in a row and he’s serving for the fourth at 40-0.”

 _Son of a bitch,_ Scott thought. _That’s impressive._

“Maybe not,” Scott half-laughed. He felt a little dizzy. Derek Hale was one thing but Stiles? Stiles never lost matches like this to _unseeded_ opponents.

“I’ve got to say though,” Scott added. “If this Lahey kid is playing like that… I hope it’s Stiles I’m facing."

Stiles had managed to pull back to four games apiece in the fifth set by the time Scott had showered and sat down to watch the match’s conclusion in the player's lounge. He was nervous – more nervous about the outcome of somebody else’s match since… well, ever. It was so weird.

Stiles stepped up to the baseline to serve and hit an ace. Or at least, it looked like an ace, until the umpire called the shot out and the eagle-eye replay showed that the ball was a few millimetres out. The second serve hit the net.

“0-40,” the umpire’s voice called.

Stiles shook his head as if to disperse the negative thoughts creeping into his consciousness. It was natural, to be doubting one’s self when being pegged back from three Match Points and a two set advantage by a kid who’d never made the third round of a Slam and wasn’t even Top 50.

Scott watched as Stiles put everything he had into a powerful serve. He continued to watch as Lahey stretched to hit a return on the backhand… and Stiles missed it.

“Game, Mr Lahey. He leads 5 games to 4.”

Isaac stepped up to serve for the match. He looked quietly determined, effectively shutting off the silent buzz around him that Scott was only too familiar with.

Something about the kid fascinated him. His slow, deliberate steps between games, his quick, unpredictable jolts in game; it was all pre-meditated. Scott analysed potential opponents as he watched their games and Lahey’s game was totally unique. Every individual movement of every individual muscle on his body seemed planned and controlled. Not to mention, executed with precision. Scott would have bet that Isaac knew in exactly which direction every hair on his head was pointed.

_This kid is good,_ Scott thought. A shiver ran through his body and Scott knew what was going to happen before it did. 15-0, 30-0, 40-0; it happened quickly with rallies of less than ten shots each time.

“Three match points,” the umpire said.

Isaac’s body stretched outwards, upwards and downwards all at once. He seemed to grow a foot. He threw the ball in the air and brought the racquet back behind his head. The ball took an eternity to fall to a height in which he could hit it with maximum power. When it did, Scott watched as the tennis ball cannoned off of the strings of the racquet, down into Stiles’s side of the court and back upwards, way out of reach. Noise and silence coexisted on the court. Scott heard his heartbeat begin to slow.

“Game, set and match, Mr Lahey,” the umpire said as Isaac sank to his knees, fists punched skywards. “4-6, 4-6, 7-5, 6-3, 6-4.”

_Shit,_ Scott thought as he watched Isaac lift himself to his feet to walk over and shake the hand of an utterly dejected looking Stiles. _I’ve got to face him next._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating this about five months later than planned. Oh well, I finish my exams this week - finally - so I'll actually have time to write for the first time since Christmas. Anyway, a few notes on this chapter:
> 
> \- "Puto" - Spanish word meaning "male prostitute". Often used in Mexico and Latin America as a derogatory term for a homosexual. 
> 
> \- Agavales Gold - An absolutely beautiful tequila drink. 100% agave, and it's crazy cheap in terms of tequila. 
> 
>  
> 
> Any questions - please leave a comment and I'll get back to you asap!
> 
> Comments/kudos are loved and appreciated, thanks for reading!

“Hey John, it’s nice to see you.”

 _Damn, the kid’s even genuinely nice,_ Scott thought as Isaac walked back onto the television screen.

John Inverdale, the BBC sports presenter, smiled at the camera.

“The kid’s as polite as he is talented!” he said. He turned back to face Isaac and stuck a microphone closer to his face than it needed to be. “So Isaac, first of all, congratulations are in order! How does it feel knowing you’ll be in the semi-finals?”

Isaac beamed. Judging by the look of him, he had more energy than any person had a right to have having come off the back of a five hour tennis match.

“It’s amazing, John,” he said, his annoyingly infectious grin reflecting sunlight onto the camera. “I never expected to get past the first round, let alone get this far! I’m buzzing!”

“I can see that,” said Inverdale, his own face reflecting the Lahey kid’s expression. “I have to say, with the recent control that Stiles and Scott McCall have had of the Grand Slam circuit, it’s nice to see young players challenging. Speaking of Scott… nervous?”

Lahey didn’t miss a beat.

“Scott’s a great player – but so is Stiles. They’re both at the top of the modern game and there aren’t many people who can claim to be as successful. But I’ve beaten Stiles and I have every confidence that I’m in with a chance in the semis. I’m gonna bring my A-game and I’m not gonna stop until the last point’s won.”

Inverdale beamed at him.

“Spoken like a true sportsman!” he said, clapping the kid on the back. “I’m sure that you’re aware that there were many people who said you’d bottle it before the game with Stilinski. Do you have any words for them before I let you escape?”

Lahey looked straight into the camera with a smile that oozed confidence and said, “Don’t underestimate me again. I think I’ve already shown you what happens when you do.”

Inverdale made a noise like a child who managed to beat their parents at a video game; pure unadulterated joy.

“And that was Wimbledon _semi-finalist,_ Isaac Lahey, speaking to you from Court Number One!” he said, shaking hands with the kid and turning back to give the loving public his full attention.

As Lahey moved off camera and out of sight, Scott stood up and grabbed his mobile phone. He held the number six down until speed dial activated the call. Stiles didn’t even greet him when he connected onto the line.

“Hey man,” Scott said, trying to sound upbeat. “Tough break, the kid sounds good.”

“Good doesn’t even cover it, Scott,” said an utterly dejected-sounding Stiles. “It was like he waited for me to think I’d won – and then he destroyed my game. Honestly, it was incredible.”

“He’s really that good?”

“Honestly? I think he’s better than that. At times it was almost like he was barely trying. He’s quick, agile, strong and confident. Think early 2000s Peter Hale but twice as good and twice and calm. I don’t think he made more than five faults the entire game.”

Scott shook his head a little. What he was hearing was nothing short of _crazy_. Stiles did not lose to opposition like this – neither did Derek Hale for that matter.

“I can’t believe this,” Scott said. “I really cannot believe it.”

“Me neither, man,” Stiles replied. “Me neither.”

Neither spoke for a few moments before Stiles made an offhand comment about going to claim a reward from his wife, Erica, after all his hard work. Scott made a retching sound and promptly disconnected to the sound of a happier Stiles giggling like a ten year old. Scott moved to pocket his phone but thought better of it. His coach would want to talk tactics. But Scott could not be bothered with Bobby Finstock right now, so he sent a text reading simply “ **will call in morning”** and turned his mobile off.

He had arranged to meet Allison and Chris for a meal that evening and so he exited his changing room and headed off towards the players’ lounge, where his girlfriend and possible future father-in-law waited.

-

‘The Stables’ was a bar that opened in the 1970s, only a few minutes walking distance from the All England Club. Initially, it had been a favourite amongst tennis fans who couldn’t afford tickets to the tennis matches. They’d watch the matches on the advanced-for-its-time 30 inch television screen in the function room, where they were close enough to the Wimbledon courts to hear the events as they happened.

However, in the late ‘90s, the owners of the bar were imprisoned for tax evasion and the bar was sold off at auction to pay back the money that they owed in return for a reduced sentence. Tennis fans were in uproar and a petition with 435,218 names was submitted to the Board of Directors at the All England Club.

With some good fortune, the prime minister of the time and his cabinet had poured funds into the rejuvenation of British sports only the month before, and so upon receiving this petition, the board decided that every single one of the fans’ wishes would be honoured. On December 4th 1998, ‘The Stables’ was sold off at auction for £435,218 and the All England Club reopened the pub the week before the 1999 tournament.

Naturally, with the backstory it had – and the controversy that buying a pub with government funds brought – ‘The Stables’ became a massive success and the pub made nearly £4million profit in its first year of business. Expansion and development then occurred and over a decade later, ‘The Stables’ was twice the size of your average supermarket and had a capacity of roughly 20,000. Its weekly profits often brushed a million these days, and trebled during tournament time.  

After the takeover, the bar became a hangout for players and fans alike. Every year, the winner and runner up of the men’s and women’s tournaments would host a party in which they’d show off their medals, drink until they couldn’t remember playing the final and eventually stumble out about noon the next day. There was no closing time on the day dubbed ‘The Stables Party’.

And so, Scott found himself sitting at a table for hours with Allison and Chris, surrounded by 18,000 people talking about the day’s events. He’d been congratulated about 100 different times, but the Stables was such a regular haunt for players, that the majority of punters weren’t phased by sitting so close to a worldwide superstar.

Despite the nonchalant attitude towards players in the bar, the entire population fell silent for a moment when Isaac Lahey walked through the giant double doors. Just for a moment though, because the room erupted into tumultuous applause.

He looked momentarily shell-shocked before breaking out into a wide grin and waving to the people on all sides of the room.

“He’s really enjoying himself,” Allison whispered in Scott’s ear, “Is that what you were like when you were his age?”

“When I was his age, I was nowhere near a Grand Slam semi-final,” Scott whispered back. “I was nowhere near a Grand Slam second round, for that matter.”

Allison shot him a sympathetic look, clearly not missing the jealousy in Scott’s tone. He laughed.

“I wish I was as good as he was when I was that age, but things have turned out alright for me, eh?” He said. “Ten Grand Slam gold medals isn’t a bad record.”

“No, it’s not,” Allison said, “And you’re only 27. You’ve still got a few years yet, I reckon.”

“Maybe,” said Scott, feigning thoughtfulness. “Dunno what I’ll do if I lose the semi-final though. I could end up going on a downward spiral resulting in my subsequent retirement and ten years later my own mom doesn’t remember me ever playing tennis.”

Allison punched him playfully on the arm, and Scott laughed.

As he looked up, he caught Lahey’s eye and raised a hand in acknowledgement. Isaac returned the gesture. Allison leaned over and muttered something in Scott’s ear about inviting him over to their table.

Scott stood up and approached the young lad. He reached out to shake hands when he got close. Lahey gripped tightly.

“Hey, man,” Scott said, being as welcoming as he possibly could to someone whom he’d been fantasising about humiliating on live global television just twenty minutes previously. “Fancy coming to join us for a drink?”

“Uh, yeah,” Lahey said, looking confused again, as if he wasn’t used to opponents – or people in general – being nice to him. “Yeah, that’d be cool.”

When Scott retook his seat, he gestured at the empty chair next to him. Isaac sat down, still looking like he didn’t understand what was going on.

“Is everything still a bit surreal for you?” Chris asked him, somewhat surprisingly. Chris Argent wasn’t known for his empathy. He wasn’t known for being a nice guy either, really. His tone wasn’t unkind, it even bordered on warm.

“Yeah,” Isaac said. “It’s insane. This time last year I was celebrating reaching the second round and now I’m gonna play in the semi-final.”

Allison smiled.

“I remember that feeling,” she said. “I’d never gone past the third round in the singles in a Grand Slam, and then dad said about doing the mixed doubles. We’ve entered seven Grand Slams, and reached the final in six. You’ll get used to it.”

“Do you want a drink, mate?” Scott asked. “Do you drink beer? Or spirits?”

Allison muttered something but Scott didn’t catch it.

“Um, I’m not allowed,” Isaac said. Scott took a few seconds to remember that Isaac was only seventeen and therefore not old enough to drink. Admittedly he did look a little older than his age, but there are drawbacks to being a Wimbledon semi-finalist. Scott would have bet that out of the 18,000 people in the bar, at least 17,995 would have known Isaac’s age.

“Oh right,” Scott said, feeling like a bit of a twat. “Well, we’re actually leaving in a minute. I’m renting a house a few miles away. You can come and join me for a few drinks there if you want. I’m not gonna tell the police.”

Isaac smiled – it was the most comfortable that he’d seemed since he’d entered the bar.

“Okay, cool. Thanks.”

-

Allison and Chris didn’t go back to Scott’s accommodation. Despite being together for almost six years, Allison and Scott never shared accommodation. They had never lived together full time, and whilst on tour, they stayed separately. Although he’d never admit it, Chris got terribly homesick, and Scott and Chris had a fragile relationship at the best of times. Allison stayed with Chris; Scott did not.

So when Scott led Isaac into the front door of the two bedroom bungalow, he suddenly remembered that Allison tended to be the one who cleaned up after Scott on her visits. He suddenly remembered that Scott hadn’t washed his own dishes once since he and Allison bypassed the honeymoon phase of their relationship. And he suddenly remembered that he had an awful habit of leaving his dirty underwear strewn across the floor, and that Allison hadn’t been by the house in about ten days.

 _Shit_ , Scott thought as he turned to apologize to Isaac for the mess. He didn’t get a chance to speak though.

“You know, a lot of people leave their dirty clothes on their bedroom floor,” Isaac said. “But I don’t know many who leave dirty pants on top of a microwave.”

“Pants?” Scott asked a little confused. “That’s a pair of boxers, mate.”

“Boxers are a type of pants here,” Isaac laughed, exasperated. “Pants means underwear. I thought that was common knowledge.”

Scott eyed him suspiciously, waiting for Isaac to shout ‘punked’ or something, but after a few seconds worth of silence and a lack of confession over what would have really been a bit of a pathetic joke, he conceded that Isaac’s information was true.

“That’s weird,” he said.

Scott never watched English TV. Like, never. He didn’t find it interesting. To be fair, he only ever really watched American TV when he knew that Michael J Fox film about the werewolf was on. He loved that film. _Teen Wolf_ , Scott thought. He’d even nicknamed his best friend ‘Stiles’ as homage to his all-time favourite film. And, considering Scott’s only other Polish friend struggled to pronounce Stiles’ real name, the monolingual British presenters adopted the nickname gratefully.

“How can a name be sixteen letters long and only have three vowels?” Scott remembered hearing one bewildered umpire ask, at one of his first Grand Slams.

Scott shook his head. _English isn’t the only weird language,_ he thought, _I miss speaking Spanish full-time._ Scott loved going to dinner with Stiles and Erica, because Allison and Stiles would chat in English while Scott conversed with Erica in their native tongue. Erica was born just outside Valencia, in Spain. Although their dialects differed slightly, fluent conversation was easy.

“Why do you have a different word to America?” Scott asked, focusing back on the present. “That’s weird,” he repeated, just so Isaac would catch the emphasis on how weird it was.

“Why is it weird?” Isaac wondered aloud. “Mexican Spanish and Spanish Spanish aren’t completely the same, are they?”

Scott opened his mouth to reply but closed it again. _Snarky bastard,_ Scott thought.

“ _Puto,_ ” Scott said, in Spanish.

Isaac’s mouth tightened a little and he looked away. Scott registered the movement, but didn’t think much of it. He was too busy staring at the bottle of liquor adjacent to his “pants”-covered microwave.

-

Excluding his mother and girlfriend, _Agavales Gold_ was the only thing in the entire world that Scott loved more than tennis. The 40% volume tequila was made only 30 miles away from his birthplace of Guadalajara. When his mother took him to live in a little town called Beacon Hills near Sacramento, Scott was six. He could remember the very expensive, very illegal, high quantities of the stuff that his mom had smuggled with them. And since his first taste of the stuff on his twelfth birthday, Scott could see why she’d risked so much to keep it in their lives. Since he turned pro, Scott always had three bottles of _Agavales Gold_ in his accommodation whilst on tour.

-

Fortunately, when Isaac got his first taste of 100% agave tequila, he instantly shared Scott’s enthusiasm for the drink.

Unfortunately, an hour or so after that first drink, it became clear to Scott that Isaac didn’t share his tolerance.

The kid was lying on the sofa, borderline passed out, but responsive. Scott had forced him to drink plenty of water before crashing to minimalize the inevitable hangover, and then locked him in the bathroom for five minutes so that he didn’t wake up hangover-free but piss-stained.

As Scott was picking up the shot glasses that were littered around Isaac’s sofa-turned-bed, the lad’s phone rang. Scott was going to leave it but he heard Isaac grunt something that sounded like ‘answer please’.

“ _Where are you?”_ said a voice from the other end of the line. It wasn’t a warm voice, or a nice one. It wasn’t even a neutral voice. The voice just sounded inherently nasty. Scott checked the caller ID: ‘dad’. Isaac’s dad seemed like an ass. But whatever he was calling for could have been important, so Scott pressed the button on Isaac’s phone that recorded phone conversations. A barely audible beep sounded.

“Hi, I’m sorry,” Scott said, not really knowing what to say. “This is Isaac’s friend, Scott. Isaac’s here but he’s asleep. Can I take a message to pass on when he wakes up?”

“ _Yes, you fucking well can,_ ” said Mr Lahey. So apparently he didn’t just _seem_ like an ass.  “ _You can tell that fucking little deviant that for as long as he is living under my roof, he obeys my rules._ All _of my rules. And you call tell him that right now, just after you wake the little faggot.”_

“Faggot?” Scott repeated, surprised that anybody would speak in such a vicious tone about their own kid.

“ _It’s a good job you’re not deaf, if you’re going to pass on my message. Tell the little faggot what I said. Tell him that I’ll let it slide this one time, but if it ever happens again, he’ll be sleeping on the streets._

And before Scott got the chance to formulate the stupid idea to respond, Mr Lahey disconnected the call. Scott couldn’t help but wonder what ‘it’ was that Isaac had done to incense his father.

“Isaac?” Scott said, shaking the lad a little.

Isaac brushed him off.

“Talk… morning…” he said, and fell back asleep.

Scott couldn’t believe that someone would talk about their own son in the way that Isaac’s father just had. Scott’s mother had always hated the ‘c word’ and had beaten Scott for the first and last time of his childhood on the first and last time that he said it. But even Melissa McCall would have been at a loss for a more apt description of Mr Lahey.

Scott looked down at Isaac. The sofa was not comfortable in the slightest and Isaac would wake up with a sore back and a stiff neck if he slept there all night. So he shoved his arms underneath Isaac’s back and legs and picked him up – hours of weightlifting really does have its benefits – and carried him into the small bedroom that Scott had never even bothered going into.

 _It’ll do,_ Scott thought as he lay Isaac down on the bed. The bed seemed comfortable enough. Before leaving Isaac to sleep, Scott made sure that he turned the kid’s phone off. Scott never wanted to hear Isaac’s father’s hateful tone again in his life.

The word “faggot” played itself again and again in Scott’s ear, but he couldn’t understand why. It took him the best part of an hour to remember catching Isaac out of the corner of his eye cringing away from being called a ‘puto’ and later mentioning something about learning Spanish at school.

 _I’ll be having a little chat with him tomorrow then,_ Scott said. He didn’t care if Isaac was gay, but he did care if Isaac thought he cared that Isaac was gay. If he was gay.

Scott dialled a number into the landline keypad and waited. The conversation lasted about 30 seconds before Scott hung up. He looked up at the clock on the wall.

“Not even 10:30pm,” Scott said aloud, “I’m exhausted.”

He truly was – he was asleep on the couch by 10:50.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is about 14 months later than promised. I'm not going to go into why it's so late and I doubt many will even remember this fic but I'm hopefully gonna finish uploading it within the next couple of weeks as I'm trying to complete all my unfinished fics. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments/kudos are always appreciated!

_“’Good morning, and welcome to BBC Sport at Breakfast. The time is 7:40, and I am your host, Sally Nugent.’”_

Scott rubbed his eyes as he opened the curtains and the sun hit him full in the face. Despite being more than used to heat having been born in Mexico as well as the years he’d spent travelling on the tennis circuit, this was ridiculously hot for early morning sunshine.

_“’In today’s news: Arsenal have been linked to the signing of Real Madrid forward Mesut Özil, Lewis Hamilton has announced he will be staying with McLaren for the forthcoming Formula One season, and BBC News Presenter, Bill Turnbull, meets the reborn snooker superstar, Ronnie O’Sullivan, at the Crucible.’”_

Scott sat back down on the couch, squinting his eyes. He had avoided a bad hangover, but just barely. He was free of a headache, but his stomach was a little unsettled and he felt strangely photosensitive.

_“’Today’s top story: Unseeded 17 year old, Isaac Lahey, fought back from two sets and three match points down to overcome the World Number Two in yesterday’s Wimbledon Quarter Final. An electrical fault may have temporarily halted the match midway through the fourth set, but nothing could halt young Lahey’s momentum. We are joined by yesterday’s loser, Stiles Stilinski, welcome.’”_

Scott increased the volume on the TV.

_“’So Stiles, the question on everybody’s lips is: just how did Isaac Lahey beat you?’”_

Scott watched as Stiles shifted – he looked completely at ease, as if he was just readjusting his position, but Scott knew that this was a sign of his best friend’s discomfort – and he smiled at the news anchor.

“’ _If I knew that, Sally, I would have probably found a way to beat him at the time. He’s an impressive player at the start of his career, and I honestly believe that in a few years he’ll be in the position that I’m in now.’”_

Stiles scratched his jaw – another idiosyncrasy that only he (and perhaps Erica and Stiles’s father) would recognise as a sign of annoyance. Sally Nugent pressed on.

_“’At two sets ahead and serving for three match points, did you believe that you’d won the tie? Did complacency have anything to do with the loss?’”_

Scott cringed. He knew that Stiles wasn’t going to enjoy this interview and that he was probably end up saying something that he’d regret. And he knew that his own second-hand embarrassment levels were about to sky-rocket.

_“’As a professional tennis player of ten years, generally when I’m serving for the match at two sets ahead, I think I’ve won, yes. However, I may have been complacent in that game, but as soon as Lahey pulled that game back, any complacency was gone.’”_

The presenter looked a little surprised at his tone but she didn’t falter.

_“’If Isaac Lahey wins Wimbledon, he’ll become the youngest player since Satomi Ito in 1961 to win a men’s or women’s Grand Slam. Do you think he has what it takes?”_

Stiles was getting visibly annoyed by this point, and not just in ways that only a handful of people would notice. He was biting his top lip and his eye started to twitch slightly, but noticeably. Scott could almost hear his thoughts: _I didn’t come to an interview at 7 fucking 40 to talk about some random kid._ He smiled to himself.

_“’He’s beaten both myself and Derek Hale. There’s no reason why he can’t win the whole thing. But Scott is a different class of player on grass. Nobody can touch him. Derek and me are one thing, but if Lahey wants to win the title, he has to go through one of the best grass court players that has ever lived.’”_

Stiles started to look around as he spoke, a clear indicator that he was bored of the conversation. Sally Nugent didn’t know that though.

_“’So you’ll be supporting Scott McCall then?’”_

_“’Good question, Sally. ‘Who will you support tomorrow, your best friend of several years or a random kid that just humiliated you in front of a worldwide audience?’ Whoever’s in charge of your autocue should be fired immediately.”_

**“** **¡Mira qué cabrón!” Scott almost shouted at the television.**

**“’sgoinon,” Isaac said, walking into the living room. If the word ‘groggy’ was a person, it would be Isaac in that exact moment.**

“Good morning, sweet pea,” Scott said.

Isaac squinted through one eye.

“Why am I alive?” he said. “And why are you calling me sweet pea?”

“Probably due to the sexual nature of your parents’ relationship. As for your second question, because you look like shit and I thought I’d be nice.”

“Arse.”

“Thanks babe.”

By this point, Stiles had left the interview (by way of prior agreement regarding timing or dramatic surprise walkout, Scott didn’t know) and Sally Nugent was continuing with her sports round-up with a particularly sour expression. Scott hit the off button on the remote control and beckoned Isaac to join him on the couch, to which the teenager obliged.

“So,” Scott said. “Your dad called last night and, um, you told me to answer it.”

In the entire history of the world, nobody had ever gone from looking like something that crawled from the pits of hell to fully alert so quickly.

“What did he say?” Isaac asked, his voice betraying his panic. “Shit, am I in trouble? Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Isaac, calm down,” Scott replied. “I’m not gonna lie, he didn’t sound like the friendliest person alive but he’s your dad. Surely he can’t be as much of an asshole as he sounds.”

“He is,” Isaac said. He didn’t elaborate further.

“I recorded the conversation on your phone in case it was something important but, um, he wasn’t exactly nice, like, I could tell you what he said if you don’t want to listen to it.”

Isaac looked at him without expression.

“Whatever he said,” Isaac said without any more expression than his appearance gave away. “He’s said worse. Where’s my phone?”

Scott picked the phone up and handed it to his new friend, who set straight to navigating towards his voice recordings. Scott heard the voice he’d taken an immediate disliking to once again.

_“’Where are you?...’”_

When the message had finished playing, Isaac set the phone down next to him and rubbed his temples.

“By comparison to his usual tone,” he said. “He seemed to be in an uncharacteristically good mood.” 

“That’s your reaction?” Scott said, totally shocked. “He spoke to me like I was a piece of shit. He spoke of you like you were even worse. Did you not hear what he called you?”

“Faggot, yeah,” Isaac said, nonchalantly. Like, actually nonchalantly. There was nothing about his demeanour that seemed to be feigned. “I suppose it _is_ progress that he’ll even admit it to strangers.”

“Admit what?” Scott asked, confused.

“That he has a ‘faggot’ son,” Isaac replied.

“Oh.”

Scott could not believe that Isaac was so calm about his father speaking about him in such an awful way, let alone to a total stranger. He couldn’t help but wonder if that was the worst thing his father had ever done.

“That’s not normal,” Scott said, after a while. “My dad is an asshole. He drank a lot, ignored me constantly, and had an affair. But your dad is… something else entirely. How can he actually say that shit about you?”

“Well he’s not technically lying.” Isaac shrugged. “I mean, I did break his rules. And I am, as he so eloquently put it, a ‘faggot’. I’m not really bothered by what he says, as long as I make money, what he says is all I have to worry about.”

“What do you mean?” Scott asked, his concern growing.

“Listen man,” Isaac said. “Thank you for caring, I appreciate it. But, at the end of the day, I don’t care what he says. I’m a Wimbledon semi-finalist, that’s four hundred grand in my bank account. The second I get that prize money, I’m heading to an estate agents. I’ve dealt with him for nearly eighteen years. I can deal with him for another week.”

Scott could sense the resilience in Isaac’s tone. Although he was genuinely very concerned by this point, he didn’t feel like Isaac would welcome any more prying.

“Anyway, thanks for letting me stay,” Isaac said as he got up from the couch. “I think I had a good night. I’ll probably see you later if you’re at the club. If not, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Scott stood and extended his hand, which Isaac took. The two of them stood in a surprisingly not awkward handshake for about ten seconds.

“Good luck for tomorrow then,” Scott said.

“You too,” Isaac said. “May the best man win, I guess.”

“I plan to,” Scott said, with a smile.

“As do I,” Isaac said. And with a wink, he turned and left.

-

Allison arrived about twenty minutes after Isaac had left. She walked straight in without knocking so Scott was sat back on the couch, and he didn’t notice her until she spoke.

“So,” she said, announcing herself. “What was it that you wanted to talk about? You seemed pretty out of sorts when you called last night.”

“Yeah,” Scott said. He rubbed his eyes. “I had a really… _weird_ interaction with Isaac’s dad.”

Allison sat down but said nothing, so Scott continued.

“So Isaac was here last night and he was… busy… and his dad called him so I answered because he told me to and they guy was just… I don’t know how to describe it… _toxic?_ He was aggressive and rude and generally just sounded like a cunt.”

Allison frowned.

“What did he say?” she said. “You didn’t get him… you got him drunk, didn’t you?”

“ _I_ didn’t force him to drink, if anything, the tequila got him drunk.” Scott shrugged, and took a sip of the water that he’d poured himself before she’d arrived. “And his dad was just really nasty. Like not rude-nasty, like nasty-nasty. He kept calling Isaac a ‘faggot’. Who says that shit about their own kid?”

Allison’s lips grew tighter. She looked away from him.

“Is he gay?” she asked, after a few moments of silence.

“Yes,” Scott replied. “I think so. Like he pretty much said ‘technically, I am a ‘faggot’’ so I assume so.”

“I can see how that would affect somebody.” Allison stopped. “I don’t think there are any gay guys in tennis. I mean, there’s a few lesbians, but I don’t think there’s many guys. He must feel a bit out of place.”

“He was really like generous with the information,” Scott reasoned. “I don’t think it’s a secret or anything.”

“If he was totally out though, the media would’ve had a field day with it,” she said. “I hope he’s okay, he seems nice.”

“I think he will be,” he replied. “He said he’s gonna buy a house with his winnings. He said four hundred grand is plenty. I don’t think he’s gonna live in London.”

“If his dad is as bad as you say he is, then I wouldn’t want to live anywhere near him either.”

“No, I don’t think I would.”

Allison stood up and walked through the archway into the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of lemonade.

“Are you nervous for the match?” She called.

“Sort of,” Scott replied honestly. “I mean, I get nervous before any match. But this feels different, you know?”

Allison came back into the room with two half-filled glasses.

“Have some lemonade, it’ll clear whatever trace of a hangover you have,” she said with a hint of smugness as she sat back down. “How does it feel different?”

“It’s like, usually I’m nervous about being embarrassed by an unseeded,” he said. “But like, Isaac’s _good._ He beat Hale and he beat Stiles. That’s not a fluke, that’s serious talent. I’m not nervous or worried about being embarrassed by him, I’m nervous because if there’s an unseeded player taking scalps of the top seeds then maybe…”

He stopped, suddenly unsure of himself. Scott had been at the top of his game for years, and yet, he couldn’t shake his doubts.

“Maybe this means you’re all at the end of your peak.” Allison finished his sentence for him.

He nodded. It all seemed real when his worries were vocalised like that. He wasn’t exactly terrified of suddenly nosediving out of the Top 100, but the idea that he might have already celebrated his last Grand Slam trophy was something that Scott didn’t want to actually think about. He was only a few years off thirty. It wasn’t that unrealistic a thought.

“What if more come along?” Scott asked, more to himself than Allison. “I mean, what if Isaac is just the start of it? What if I end up like Ken Yukimura?”

Ken Yukimura had been a force to be reckoned with in the late 90s. He’d won three Grand Slams back-to-back and it had looked like there was no stopping him. It was at Wimbledon that he’d gone for his fourth consecutive title and came up against Peter Hale in the Final. Peter had absolutely decimated the guy 6-1, 6-1, 6-0 and Ken Yukimura failed to reach the Quarter Finals of a Slam again. Three years later, Peter Hale was World Number 2, had won each Grand Slam title once, and had developed an almost cult-like following. Yukimura, on the other hand, retired as the World Number 91.

“Scott, you know that’s not going to happen to you.” Allison pulled him into a hug, sensing his unease. “And besides, he’s done alright for himself since. He still coaches his daughter and Kira’s won two Slams in three years. Not bad going.”

“I don’t have a daughter to coach,” he said. “And I’m not tough enough to be a coach anyway. One kid’d be like ‘hey I don’t wanna do it today’, and I’d be like ‘sure thing, kiddo, take the week off!’”

Allison smiled.

“Yeah, you’d be a pretty shit coach,” she said.

“You wound me,” Scott mock-cried, clutching his chest above his heart. “Oh, woe is me, even my love is but a hand on a sword. Maybe I should just go gay with Isaac.”

“While I admit that would be incredibly hot,” Allison said, still smiling. “I don’t think that’s quite how it works.”

“No, probably not, but I would definitely be a hot gay guy,” Scott said. “I hope he’s okay.”

“Me too,” she replied.

The two didn’t speak for a few minutes before Allison stood up.

“Well I’ve got a date with the Hales at 1, so I best be heading down to the Club,” she said.

“How come the Mixed Doubles final is so early this year? It’s usually the last day, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, something about a new format. I think it’s so that there’s no distractions from your precious Men’s Singles Final. Seeing as your tournament is worth 15 times more money than mine is, I do see the point, I guess.”

“I still don’t get that. You work just as hard as I do, you should have the same prize money.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” Allison said. “Not when me and Dad can comfortably live off what we win, and then my multi-millionaire man treats me on occasion.”

Scott laughed.

“Let me get a quick shower and I’ll come down and practice with you,” he said.

“Okay,” Allison replied. “I’ll make us a bacon sandwich each while you’re in there. Say what you want about English people, but they do bacon right.”

“Can you do me another favour too?” Scott asked.

“Sure, what?”

“Make sure you beat Derek fucking Hale. Isaac’s win will be much less impressive if even your dad can beat him.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.”

“Good,” Scott said as he turned towards the staircase. “Inspire a bit of anger in him. Just make sure he takes it out on Derek.”


End file.
